Our fate held close within his quiet hands
by thejacinthsong
Summary: She's facing her death, in the freezing cold at midnight. In which Sherlock Holmes follows Irene Adler to Karachi, and they continue from there. (Irene/Sherlock, Eventual Sherlock/Molly)
1. Chapter 1

_Before us great Death stands_

_Our fate held close within his quiet hands._

_When with proud joy we lift Life's red win_

_To drink deep of the mystic shining cup_

_And ecstasy through all our being leaps - _

_Death bows his head and weeps._

_- Rainer Maria Rilke_

* * *

She's facing her death, in the freezing cold at midnight. They tell her that she may have her last words, and she interprets that differently, hand plunging into her burqa to retrieve the brand new phone that had replaced the one he had taken from her. She plugs in the passcode (still stubbornly the letters S, H, E, R), and chooses his number. _Goodbye Mr. Holmes, _the glib text reads, but she can't think of anything else to say to the man. They shared nothing but somehow everything, and admitting that to him would be defeat. She won't concede that to him, not even in death. She closes her eyes, and presses send, before surrendering the phone to the demanding man, yelling at her in Arabic. There's a different man behind her, her _executioner _(and she does not like the way that word tastes) and he lightly presses the sword to her neck, marking its destination.

It stings and aches, but he hasn't really touched her.

She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and prays that the blade is sharp.

To whom? At this point it does not matter.

The lustful sigh she had recorded months ago surprises her, and her eyes fly open. Her head whips around the abandoned space they had chosen for her death, the only marks of civilization in the trucks and poorly set up tents. She sees nothing, and so her head snaps back to her executioner, her heart seeking for hope. The icy blue eyes, so dead and emotionless the last time she had seen them, are bright with excitement. The thrill of the chase. She understands.

"When I say run," He murmurs, "_Run." _He turns and swings the blade over his head, surprising the audience as the blade flashes like quicksilver, drawing in and out, coming away with crimson. She can't stop the smile breaking out, but then reality grips her, and she's on her feet in a second. She flies at her original captor with a snarl, remembering the bruising hold, and the treatment that left her even more scarred than she had been before. She tears at him until she's grabbed one of his weapons - it doesn't matter which one - and his life ends in seconds. She feels his last breath ghosting over her face, rank with rot, and then he stills.

She calmly removes his phone from his jacket, pulls out his gun, and turns on the remaining terrorists. There were only eleven to begin with, because the clever things thought that they were enough for her.

_Perhaps so, _she thinks to herself, eyes narrowing in Sherlock's swinging, unforgiving blade.

The skirmish is over in a blink, leaving the two of them standing apart from one another, breathing heavily in exertion. She avoids his gaze as she straightens, ripping the thin material from her head that had been constricting her hair. She feels boxed in and suppressed in this clothing, and almost afraid. Internally, she berates herself for this, because it should never have gotten this far. She had made one slip, and she had been handed over, and she will never work that way again. It's only when he speaks that she realises that she wasn't only talking about her near death experience.

"We should leave." He says tonelessly, all warmth from his eyes gone. "There could be more coming, to... "celebrate" your death. You should be flattered. I'm expecting an army to arrive." The blade slips from his hand and crashes to the ground, dirtying the sand with mixed blood.

"At least I would have died popular." She returns without a thought. He looks as if to consider her for a moment, before gesturing to one of the large vehicules. Where he got the keys, she doesn't know, but he's twirling them in hand as he walks towards the jeep. She follows after a moment, knowing that she could find another set of keys to avoid him, but doing so anyway.

He starts the car without looking at her, and she turns away from him, embarrassed and infuriated by the slight. She stifles a shiver, pressing closer to the window, and pulling the thin material of her burqa closer to her. The action mades her wince as the fabric bunches and tightens over her bruises and cuts, but she forces back the whimper rising in her throat. Even if she did want sympathy from him, the laughing twinkle in his eyes had died along with the terrorists, replaced with a hardness that would surely relish in her pain. His hand moves towards the dashboard, long fingers grasping the heating dial. She realises that he must have noted her badly suppressed shudder. She hides a smile, feeling touched, and almost triumphant, until with a snap, the small stream of heat circulating the car cuts off abruptly. He returns his hand to the steering without a word, though she suspects she would see a glimmer of a smirk gracing his pale features should she choose to look (she won't). She keeps her eyes focused away, and smiles anyway, because the response is so childish and more _him, _and she can't help herself. She is free for the first time in a month, and she allows herself that brief liberty, just this once.

Her dry lips crack at the now unfamiliar motion, and small beads of blood form on the abused skin. She licks her stinging lips quickly, and grabs the tube of tip balm she sees by the dashboard. It is new, it has yet to be removed from its packaging, and the brand is in no way Pakistani. She smears the greasy substance over her lips, attempting to still look cool and aloof, as if the gesture meant nothing.

She keeps the tube, just to annoy him, stuffing it in her trouser pocket beneath the layers of silk. She stifles a yawn, trying to remember the last time she slept voluntarily, and leans her head against the window, wincing as the cold leaves sharp pains digging into her skin. It fades into numbness after a few moments. She trails a finger down the fogged up window, trying to evaluate their location through the flickering headlights. The only other lights she can see are from the camp they are speeding away from. Her head had been stuffed into a burlap sack on her way there, trapped in the boot, and she had been too panicked, trying to formulate an escape plan to notice the path they took, until a particularly large pothole sent her head crashing into the ceiling and rendering her unconscious. She can still feel the lump on her head, aching with a ferocity that she fears will knock her out again.

If it doesn't, then the lull of the humming engine and the lack of conversation or distraction will do it instead. She fights the urge to keep her eyes open, to focus on the faint outline of sand rushing past her vision. The man beside her still stares resolutely in front of him, as if by staring he will be able to glean some information from what is hiding in the darkness. He may be the great Sherlock Holmes, she wants to say to him, but he cannot see in the dark. She takes in his clenched jaw, and his impossibly tight grip on the steering wheel. She says nothing.

* * *

They drive in absolute silence, for maybe an hour, but it is only a guess. He stops abruptly without a word or change in expression, the wheels skittering forward a few metres despite the silent sand crunches unpleasantly beneath them, and she decides that she will never stomach sand again once she leaves this place, and removes every single irritating grain from her clothing and skin. He opens the door and leaps out gracefully, still without acknowledgement, and after a few, boiling seconds, she follows him, the frustration of the unknown clutching at her veins. Her feet are practically bare despite cloth shoes, the sand shifting easily beneath them, and she does not need to hide the look of disgust, as the dark does that for her. She stumbles blindly after him, hoping that the tender skin of her feet will remain safe from anything unpleasant lurking in the disintegrated rock. It occurs to her then, as she follows him warily, that he holds her life in his hands, and that he is without doubt aware of that. He's either saving her or leading her to another death, and she can't do anything about it at the moment. If they arrive to an army of British or American soldiers, then she'll fight her way out of it. If he puts her on a plane to safety, she'll be alive. Either way, there's no use questioning it now. Escaping him now, into the wild savagery of the desert was a death sentence itself.

So she doesn't argue.

She knows that she had been driven out of Karachi, and was most likely into the Thar desert, based on the amount of time she had spent in the boot. There is no light, no _real _light, anywhere, and the moon and stars are not enough for her. She does not know this land. Her cellphone is almost dead, but she doesn't know who she would call anyway. She resents the vulnerability she suddenly feels, more so than any second of the last, torturous month, but her gait does not slow, because she is out of options, and she has already manipulated him once before.

He leads her through the mouth of a cave. The cave is no lighter than outside, and she quietly presses a hand to the wall to support her blind eyes. It's suffocating, the darkness, and she breathes it in gratefully. The time spent in terrorist hands has made her jumpy, and she glances around the stifling darkness, to see if she can make out any offending shapes. She sees and hears nothing, except for Sherlock shuffling around in front of her, though she has yet to decide if he qualifies as 'offending.' There is a fumble, then a resounding snick that echoes through the cave, and a weak flood of light washes over her. It is like salvation, and she basks in it, breathing in deeply as if to absorb. She feels like she has been in the dark forever.

A rock falls somewhere in the distance, and it startles her. She imagines that his glance back at her is one of amusement, and stifles the anger that is evokes. She is The Woman, The Dominatrix, and yet somehow, their positions have switched, and he's in control.

She doesn't like it.

The light is not strong enough to give her anything but a minimal view of the ground she stands on, but she still takes it gratefully. Sherlock's darkened silhouette stands focused on her, not far enough away, and finally no longer pretending to ignore her. He faces her solemnly, like she is his prisoner, and she recalls the cold metal resting lightly, threateningly on her neck; the whoosh as it swung back in the air, whispering lethal threats. She had forgotten than fear until now.

She moves past him purposefully, letting her skin brush his. She buries the pain it evokes, and takes solace in the sharp intake of breath. Once at the wall of the cave, she turns, and sinks to the ground, her legs still trembling with the remembered fear of the planned execution. She hides it well, as the cold, trickling terror creeps up her spine and she attempts to look as regal and composed as he would remember. It would harm her to show weakness, and she tries to slip into the mystery she had once gifted him, though she is no longer sure if she still exists. But he loved that enigma, and since he has no reason to do her this favour, she would not chance him giving her away to her enemies by allowing him something to sneer at. If he grew bored with her, she knew, it would spell her end. He was more like Moriarty that he dared think.

So she sits nonchalantly, against the stone wall, and pulls out her phone, letting out a deliberate sigh of contentment. She ignores the warning, and types in the passcode (she no longer sees it as an admission of sentiment, but rather rebellion), and greets the familiar glow of classified information. It sends a comforting thrill through her sore, battered body, to hold such power in her hands. Admittedly, she had had to begin anew after her last phone had been confiscated from her like she was a high school student. She had thought that she had regained enough to keep her safe. For a while at least.

She had been wrong.

A shiver wracks her frame, smaller and gaunter since their last meeting. He seems to tire of his reflective stance upon seeing the jerked movement, and removes his outerwear disguise. She can sense the anger he is stifling, having felt his rigid form as she passed. It had not yet occurred to her that he might be angry, having been the one who bested her when they had last met. He approaches her slowly, and his threatening stance thrills her just slightly. He looks so achingly familiar in the wool coat that had once irritated her skin so pleasantly, at a time that seems so far away now. He rips off the scarf in one easy, fluid movement, and throws it to her, closely followed by his jacket. The heavy material slaps her skin roughly, but she doesn't hesitate to bury herself within it, dropping all pretenses of being anything less than freezing cold. The coat swamps her figure even more now, and does not fit as well. She breathes in air gratefully, without her lungs rattling with cold, but regrets it almost immediately when she breathes in his scent, and reawakens the far off memory of her pressed up against him, desperately trying to steal an interlude of ignorance with him before reality and her deceit crashed around their ears.

She tries not to wonder what would have happened if he had given in to her.

She knows he does too.

Their cat-and-mouse game ends, pulling her from her thoughts, as he sits gracefully beside her. "I'm surprised to see you without your other half." She says lightly, cupping her frozen feet tightly and trying to rub the cold out of them. He is ridged beside her, tension pouring off of his body without attempting to disguise it.

"I'm surprised to see you with so much clothing." He snaps, poison threading his tone.

"Oh, come now." She chides, "You're ruining the atmosphere." He breathes in sharply through his nose, reaching a large hand towards her. She is surprised that he would be so forward; he was more the mouse in this game than she. His hand reaches towards her, and she shrinks from it like a wild animal, snarling at the unknown. The hand sinks without relent, digging into the folds of his jacket. She struggles against his touch, but he catches her wrist anyway, pulling it from the warm cocoon she had formed. She grits her teeth as cold air rushes in, and she shivers angrily, trying to draw away from him. He ignores her, and plants one large thumb firmly on her pulse point. Her memory casts back once more, but she suspects that he is either preparing to interrogate her, or wants to remind her of the mistake that had lost her the game.

She doesn't like either answer.

"Some would thank me for saving their lives." He tells her, as he begins to stroke random patterns into the tender skin.

"Only grudgingly." She responds, and winces as he flies over a particularly painful bruise. The circles stop when he feels her flinch.

"You're hurt." He says in a queer voice, as if to wonder at the concept of injury. She feels defensive immediately, and tries to once more to wrench out of his hold, but he brings her closer instead, pushing the sleeve up past her elbow. He shines the light of his phone over her thin arm, stopping over every mar in her skin. She feels like crying as he grows increasingly gentle, emotion jumping through his eyes too quickly to define.

"I'm fine." She responds, somewhat angrily. His eyebrows arc in surprise at the emotion in her voice, and his eyes flick to hers, settling lower, and moving down slowly as if to examine her injuries, and she imagines drily that he is able to distinguish the bruises underneath the three layers of cloth. "Just a few bruises. I've had worse." And she has; a lot worse. She had refused pity then, running from people who were innocent, well-meaning, and kind, trying to see through her for the heart of gold they were _sure _she would have. She had left them before she could disappoint them, and allow them to see that her heart was made up of shards of cheap glass, not expensive gold, glued hastily back together in an attempt to seem unbroken.

"Yes. Of course you are." He says quietly, and she does not understand. His eyes had darkened at her words, as if furious that he couldn't tell what she was thinking, or how she had lived. Her pride swells only slightly, because it is still too crushed to be anything but feeble. There are questions that she wants to ask him (How did he find her? What lengths did he go to? Why did he come? Why does he care?), but she does not know how. She feels so separate from what she had thrown at him: The Woman, The Dominatrix, and he seems to have hardened further. They had barely know each other then, and there is a wedge between them now. They don't know each other. She wonder if they even should.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Her voice is sharper than intended, hiding the curiosity behind the words, and masking it with anger.

He pauses for a moment. "Moriarty." He says nonchalantly, ignoring her question. "It was Moriarty that told me where you were." She looks at him, surprised.

"Why?"

"You two were close, weren't you?" His voice is harsh; bitter; accusing. "He knew that I would rescue you - 'Good Samaritan,' I would suppose. He doesn't like getting his hands dirty - even when preventing the deaths of his employees, surprisingly." He finishes with a sneer. She observes his anger with open bewilderment. _That little..._

"He handed me to my executioners." She says quietly, her exasperation weak in her fatigue. His blue eyes are full and hard with doubt and mistrust, and she feels guilt. "I stopped being useful to him." She tells him like it is nothing, leaving out the text she had received, about being the first step in burning out the heart of the consulting detective. It is not a kindness; she sees no point in telling him.

"Ah." He leans back against the wall. "You aren't angry."

She frowns. "Should I be?" She asks him coolly, observing the self-proclaimed sociopath, who for some reason cared why she wasn't angry at Jim for trying to have her killed. _He would make a horrible criminal, no matter what people say, _she thinks warily.

"Most would be."

"I'm not most."

"I know." He pauses, for a beat. "I suppose he didn't intend for me to actually find you."

_Then why did you? _She wants to ask.

"I guess not." Is the only thing that slips out, echoing in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two - And time should gurgle on_**

She sleeps, she thinks, that night. Fitfully and restlessly - with long periods spent staring out into the darkness, listening to Sherlock's even breaths ghosting over her face. When she does sleep (at least she thinks that's what it is), she is swallowed whole in bottomless black, Moriarty's laugh and smile shining bright against the murkiness, as heavily clothed men jumping out at her with brandished weapons. Above it all, Sherlock looks down at her like a god, with hard blue eyes - like he _hates _her; a sword perched on his shoulder as if to swing. Surrounded by threats, she stares up at him without blinking, tensed and unsure whether to run. She would awake from her nightmare of daydream (daymare?) with a start, struggling to keep her breathing slow and even. If Sherlock noticed her unease, and her struggles for control - and there are hitched breaths to suggest that he does - he does not respond, and she is grateful.

When the early morning light breaks through the mouth of the cave, it dances teasingly over her eyelids, urging them to open. She realises that she must have slept, even if only for a few moments, as she is surprised to see the sudden light. She stands with difficulty, the night on cold rock having hardened her already stiff bones. The loud crack that echoes in the stifling space is gratifying, though she looks down in almost-panic at Sherlock to reassure herself that she is still (somewhat) alone. His head is partly turned up towards her, his slow breaths convincing of his unconscious state. She kneels down once more, entranced by his open face. There is no suspicion or doubt or anger or tension on his pale face, and she relishes it, being a cause of those emotions. His mouth is tilted open only slightly, and she fights the urge to explore that face; trailing her hand across the complex planes and arcs that make up his mask.

His eyes suddenly snap open, blurry and confused, flitting to ever corner of his surroundings before settling on her. She does not dare move, as his mouth closes, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallows hard. She can map out the effort he is putting into reinstating his defense system, and notes when he gives up, staring back with the same, silent look that adorns her face openly. His eyes are awash with emotions she knows burn within him. She sees doubt and anger and fear, all tinged with something she recognizes, an emotion so vulnerable and so strong, that she almost runs from the flames it lights in his eyes.

"We should go." He finally mutters, past dry, cracked lips. He stands quickly, and she rocks back on her heels to avoid being knocked over. She rises slowly, lingering close in an attempt to accomplish something, though she isn't sure what. She walks lightly out of the cave, her feet bound tightly in a thin pair of white trainers she had stolen from one of her younger captors. Tricking him had been easy, and she had left his body behind a sand dune, too angry and shaken from his hard hands and wavering warnings to bury him or feel guilt. He was a victim of his society, she knew, and had been the nicest to her. His fatal mistake had been standing in the way of her possible freedom, which she knew was his responsibility. He had died with terror in his young eyes, and she had left him without breath or shoes. Every step she takes brings the shockingly light eyes back in a flash, and she resents it, just as she resents the men who found her quickly and ended her brief taste of freedom.

Dawn had only just broken, the soft light peeking over the sand dunes, a warning against the intense sun that is sure to swiftly follow. The jeep they had stolen sat silently a few metres from the cave's entrance, and she feels almost under scrutiny. She can see no activity across the flat, sandy plain, but she knows that there will be people looking for her. The headlight shines for a moment as he unlocks the car, falling black after a moment. She thinks that it encapsulates who she is, and climbs into the car. It sputters momentarily before roaring into life, and he pulls out onto uneven sand, before easing onto a road rarely used. It occurs to her as the sand shifts loudly and uneasily beneath the tyres, that Karachi is too dangerous for her to be in, and she voices the concern.

"Obviously." He sniffs at her, offended, and terror grips her heart. "I'm driving to Bikaner. We'll take a train to Mumbai from there, then fly to England." He eyes her, expression softening slightly when he notes her tense form. "I'm not here to take you to Mycroft, you know. I'm not his puppet."

"Then why did you?" She lets slip, before she can stop the words. She _is _curious, as they had parted on less than friendly terms, and he owed her nothing, in the end. He shrugs nonchalantly, uncaringly, and she knows that he is about to lie.

"You're moderately clever, compared to me." He says in a bored voice, as if she should feel honoured. "If I must exist with only idiots on this planet, I'll go mad. I couldn't exactly allow a perfectly good brain get splattered across the desert." He is lying, she thinks (hopes), but she does not press him further, though she concedes a small, amused smile. She is unsure whether it is because she knows he would never willingly tell her, or if it is because she is afraid of the answer.

"I see." She says, and he glances at her like he is disappointed that she did not ask any more of him. She is too.

* * *

They arrive in Bikaner that evening. They got lost only once, despite Sherlock's vehement denial of losing his way even slightly, and she is exhausted. Any talking between them was sporadic, and without serious direction. Her heart warmed ever so slightly when she had caught him unaware, and startled a chuckle out of him at a dry joke she had made. He had seemed to sit taller when he had noted her watching him with rapt attention, as he recounted a case to her (she likes stories, he obviously remembered). She admitted to having read his blog, and his boyfriend's blog, and he conceded to having glanced at hers. She remarked that she was thinking of removing it, and he merely nodded. The only moment of panic arose when they ran out of gas, but they had luckily found a can of petrol in the boot. He claimed, haughtily, that he had known that it was there already. She still does not believe him.

They check into a small hotel, under false names and marital status. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he already has the train tickets to Mumbai, but she insists on going out to ensure the station's location anyway. It is only after her freedom is more reassured, and she has walked down a street freely for the first time in forever, does she remember that she has not eaten for days, and not properly for a month. There is a fierce hunger gnawing on her insides. They opt for a supermarket instead of a restaurant, both too tired for any more human company, and return to the hotel. Even before the door is shut, she is tearing off the constricting burqa, and disappears into the bathroom with fresh supplies and new clothing. She re-emerges clean and sound for the first time in weeks, feeling closer to human in the longest time. Her smile is present and a little brighter, as he hands her a loaf of bread, and then flinches as if he was burnt when their fingers touch. Her smiles slips away; she does not flatter herself with old clichés, and thinks that he is disgusted with her.

The thought digs a knife into her stomach, and she does her best to twist it.

"You'll have to die." He tells her later, sleepily, after the food and wine have been polished off, and they are sitting side-by-side on the floor. She pauses, a finger sticky with sugar suspended in the air a few inches from her mouth, and she knows that she could beat him in a fight should she need to escape him. He yawns, and leans his head against the bed frame, and she struggles to imagine needing to beating him at the moment. He is stretched out like a cat, too comfortable to feign superiority.

"Sorry?" She asks, because she had thought... well. It did not matter.

"Die." He clarifies, and the word passes by his lips harshly. "If you want your protection, you'll need to die, which, makes you even luckier that I'm here. You have no hope of fooling Mycroft on your own this time."

"And you can?" She relaxes back against the bed, cleaning the sweet substance from her finger. He glares at her - not seriously, she notes, almost teasingly - and twists his nose up in the air.

"Of course." He tells her imperiously. "I can do anything."

"Except remember basic, primary astronomical facts?" She teases in a deadpan voice. His mouth drops, then closes, and he huffs.

"_'The Study in Pink.'_" He sneers with derision. "Of course." She chuckles, and his eyebrow quirks up. "I've never heard that before." He says with a frown.

"Heard what?"

"You laugh." He looks genuinely surprised, his nose crinkled in confusion, and she swallows hard, because it is slightly adorable, and she did not know that she was still capable of thinking like that.

"Yes, you have." She insists, because gentle laughter at his genius sounds exactly like something she would do to manipulate him. "You must have."

"No. I haven't. Not real laughter." She eyes him.

"Does it matter?" She breathes. His eyes are wide, and confused, so intense on her face, that she feels cleansed of the darkness lurking in her soul.

He screws up his eyes into a tight squint. "I don't know." He whispers like he is frightened of that fact. "You tricked me." He continues in the same, soft, calm voice, and it is so much worse. "You were something I had never encountered. And it was a complete lie." She yanks away from him, feeling foolish at what she had thought was a new beginning. He smirks without mirth, and she thinks that he is broken too. "No one's ever done that before."

"I sincerely doubt that, Mister Holmes." Her voice is like a whip, and she is lashing out to stave off the guilt she hates herself for feeling. His eyes narrow, and she sees him - for once - give into an emotion, and she enjoys the fact that only _she _has the power to do so; ruffle the feathers of the great, almighty Sherlock Holmes. "If you've come to lecture me on the morality of manipulation, then I am afraid you are wasting your time." She says to him, masking her uncertainty with a flippancy that annoys him. He isn't as good as hiding his emotions as he thinks, which shows in how his fingers reach out and tighten around her wrist. "From what I've stumbled upon, _everyone _tricks you. Moriarty did - his lowest _employees _tricked you. They prey on the weaknesses you so obviously make clear, and if it wasn't for your sidekick, you would have taken the pill - which was the _wrong _one, by the way - and _died." _His face contorts and reddens, and they both scramble to their feet for a sense of power, as she rips out of his grasp.

"How did you - ?" He begins to splutter, but she smoothly cuts him off.

"You don't think Moriarty has his employees watched?" She mocks, "Did he not tell you that he watched the murders like a reality television programme? He most _thoroughly _enjoyed your episode. I can see how he would - it revealed _very _interesting information about his target." She turns up her nose at him. "How have you _still _not learned to hide your weaknesses?"

"Stop it - "

"As for you _brother. _I assure you, he is more than capable of tricking you. I have proof of how frequently he actually does it. _'Never been tricked.'" _She snorts derisively. "Hardly." With her final word, it becomes clear that she has pushed him over the line. His nostrils flare wide, his fists clench tightly, and his eyes burn with anger.

"You wish to discuss showing weakness, Miss Adler?" He snarls at her, taking steps closer. She backs away hastily, not wanting to be near him, but he continues advancing until he has her forced against the wall. His teeth are bared, the sounds being ripped from his throat more animal than human. He grabs her wrist, and presses hard on the pulse point. She gasps at the sudden pain, struggling against him, but in a moment he has her legs pinned so she can't kick at him, and the other wrist trapped against the wall. "Hear that?" He smirks, smugly. "Thump-thump, thump-thump. That is rather _fast, _don't you think? He sneers, and she thinks to herself, almost delirious with anger, that she could escape this should she choose to, but she wants to hear his anger in an act of familiar masochism. "You _lost _your little game, that would have kept you safe for the rest of your _life, _because you _just _couldn't control your most primal emotions." His mouth twists, and he glares at her in such disgust that she begins to feel it too. "How _pathetic." _

"You think so, Mister Holmes?" She spits, because he is right, and she hates it. "What about when you are old or injured, and completely alone, without anybody to care about you? Your _paid _housekeeper will be dead, your brother too, no doubt, and your little pet will have wisely moved on." He flinches, and she has him. "You think you're untouchable? Above it all? You pride yourself on being made of stone, when you hide a desperate fear of being _lonely. _People - the only people you will ever have - will leave you, and they should, because you are nothing more than a cruel, unfeeling genius with a violin and a long coat, and you don't deserve them." She is throwing herself off the wall, her face inches from him, and she is fully aware of the parallels she is drawing. She almost falls when he releases her, grabbing his jacket off the bed. She stumbles backwards, and he shoves a hand inside his jacket pocket to grab a white piece of paper. He chucks it at her face, and looks disappointed when it only flutters to the ground instead of causing her harm.

"Good luck then, Miss Adler." He says, and his voice is colder than she ever thought to be possible. "If you don't mind, I think I'll leave now, and free you from the burden of doing it later."

"Afraid it will _hurt, _Mister Holmes?" She yells after him, as the door slams, and she takes comfort in having the last word, because she knows it will torture him. She sits back on the thin bed, angry tears threatening to fall. She shuts the light off with a hard slap, and closes her eyes. Adrenaline has rid her of her fatigue, and tired fury and guilt force her eyelids open. The pillow is thin, the mattress even more so, and she knows she will not sleep. She won, this time, she thinks, but she takes no pleasure in it.

* * *

The train leaves at ten the next morning, and the wake-up call comes at seven, but she has been up all night, and she does not need it. She has spent another night tossing and turning, without the comfort of another warm body grounding her from her nightmares. She hates him for leaving, and herself for making him do so. It is far more her fault than his, and she does not understand why he even came to begin with. The romantic part of her (very small, but still breathing) dreams up the feelings he still has for her, and she allows them to trump the reality, that he merely wanted to rub her loss in her face. Appreciation for besting him plays a factor in the rescue, she knows, but she prefers the romantic scenarios, even if it will hurt her later one.

She rises when the elderly Indian woman knocks on her door, and her thin smile and small tip are her thanks. She checks out to discover that she owes no money, and needn't run: he had paid the room in full. It messes with her head, because she was expecting the opposite, and she leaves the hotel in a daze. She has no money for food, and her stomach reminds her of this, and she has no idea what she is going to do when she gets to Mumbai. She burns bridges; she does not build friendships, and she has no one to call anymore. She expects on every corner to see a police officer or a terrorist, because she does not know if he has ratted her out. A few deductions or facts mean nothing, and he is still a stranger to her.

Will always be, she guesses.

Surprisingly, to her, she reaches the train station without capture or arrest, and boards the train without incident, accepting the smiles she receives from the ticket officers politely. She finds a passport in the bag she was carrying, with her photo and a new name, and she smiles brokenly. She feels cold and lifeless, shut down to handle the emotional and physical assault of the last month. She feels guilty, and she resents it; more glad than ever that she had never maintained contact with anybody after a game had finished, and therefore escaped facing the people she had hurt. She vows to never set foot in London again, because she is sure that he will never leave. Facing him a second time was hard, and she could not stomach seeing him again. She thinks of her dead family, and Dean, and she thinks that they would hate the person she has become.

She picks a compartment without paying attention, and places her bag (plastic, but she had nothing else) on the seat. When she looks up, Sherlock is sitting rigidly on the opposite side, looking at her with no anger; with nothing. She freezes, and inwardly curses, preparing to leave and find another - _any - _compartment. There is a warm sandwich lying innocently on a napkin on the table between the two seats. He grips the edge of the napkin, and nudges it towards her in a strange, vague invitation. It smells amazing, and she is too hungry to refuse. Handing him the water bottle they had bought last night as thanks, she sits, lifting the greasy mess to her mouth. She takes a generous bite, and he a sip, and though the unspoken bitterness and anger and guilt still sits between them both, underlined by something neither one know how or want to face, they accept the strange truce for what it is, and sit in a quiet approaching comfortable as the train begins to move.

She is relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

But in the twenty one hours that it takes to reach Mumbai, the atmosphere between them doesn't dissolve: his stubborn anger and pride sticks. He is as tedious as every other man, she observes grumpily, after another failed attempt at luring him into conversation. _Can't handle the defeat of a woman, and deals with it with a cold shoulder and supposedly discreet, pointed glares. _Despite the seemingly conciliatory gesture of both his presence and the food he brought (even if she knows he chose it because he knew she would usually rather starve than eat that greasy mess), he is silent and uninterested in further interaction. He has found a laptop in their night apart, and types continually, managing to sound angry even in the aggressive tapping sounds. She eventually gives up, and watches nature rush by them, speeding from rich architecture to dry and barren land.

Although she knows she has to start running when they flee this wasteland: she can't help but fantasise of returning to London: she has games and plots that are half-formed in her head; bitterly concocted after facing the imperious, triumphant faces of both Holmes' men. She likes nothing more than to take their proud veneers, and crush them until they were begging at her feet. A thrill traces her spine: she would enjoy breaking The Virgin and The Ice Man. Maybe one day. She is patient. And almost a full day sitting in a carriage with Sherlock Holmes is very conducive to planning their next... _session._

They reach Mumbai, and he still doesn't speak. He pays a cab to take her to the airport, clipped instructions to the driver in Hindi (she wonders how many languages she could force him to beg in), and hands her papers, a plane ticket folded in the pages without looking at her. He shoves the door shut as she tries to have the last word, gesturing to the driver, but then he is gone and the cab is driving away before she finishes her sentence. She refuses to look back, but she imagines that he is watching her go, cursing his pride.

_Very well, Mr. Holmes, _she thinks, clenching her jaw tightly, _this is a lesson I will keep close._

(she doesn't)

* * *

She keeps up with him. Subtly, of course, as is her way. She glances at his "boyfriend's" blog every now and then, smirking at his indignant comments. She even texts him once in awhile when boredom has truly gripped her until she is dangling off the edge of sanity, her frustration at her exile finally reaching her. He never replies, but he never blocks her either, which she interprets as an invitation to continue. She entertains herself in the meantime - for no matter where she hides, what alias she uses, sex is a tool, and she wields it sharply to gain power.

(She doesn't go back to New Jersey, even though the haunting memories linger over her).

He bursts into fame months after he had rescued her: suddenly he is a craze in all of the British newspapers. His face (which he poorly attempts to hide) is splashed across the front pages of every paper. There are pieces on his cases, but mostly speculation on his marital status and sexual orientation, and polls of his attractiveness. More blogs and fansites begin to pop up, arguing and obsessing over the man's cheekbones and wit. Sometimes she sees it in her local news - New Yorkers even take to that ridiculous hat. She idly imagines him wearing that and nothing else as she whips him into a frenzied, desperate submission. Ooh, how satisfying would that be?

But fame doesn't last - she doesn't quite imagine that he would fall in such a way. Sherlock proves to be much weaker, and gullible than she originally thought, while Jim proves himself to be even cleverer and craftier. She wonders if he knows she is in fact alive - Irene (Yvette Williams now) has avoided any hint of his empire since she fled. She may no longer be useful, but she doesn't want to find out what that would mean for her if he knew she lived. Ironically, it is Sherlock's heart that destroys him: Sherlock Holmes loves himself far too much to ever willingly commit suicide. She certainly knows that about him.

She picks up the whispers, of the trained guns at his little circle. How adorable, really. _Sentiment a chemical defeat on the losing side, indeed._

(She doesn't for a second believe that his death is true, no matter how many confirmations. She faked her death successfully after all: if anything, she takes it as a little homage to their time together.)

She texts him a riddle: and sits back and waits for him to appear, all the while lovingly cultivating the little empire she is creating of her own. She thinks he would appreciate it.

* * *

In the end, it takes eight months after his Fall, for those elegant cheekbones to appear on her doorstep. But gone is the man she knew: a fact poorly disguised behind a thin, cracking mask. He is gaunt and frenetic: nervous and fidgety, covered in new scars and bruises, bathed in dried blood, leaning against the corridor wall as he waits for her to open the door (the fact that he doesn't pick the lock is perhaps more frightening). She waves him towards the bathroom with a wrinkled nose, unable to force out a word. She didn't think he would do this on his own: how frightfully primitive of him.

She pours wine, and flips on the electric fire. She evaluates her wardrobe, but instead decides to remind him of what he had missed. She curls up on her armchair, delightfully bare, skin thrumming with anticipation. He would be incredibly hungry, she reflects, sipping dark wine, so long without companionship. Now he will learn. _I will make him learn. _She tells herself viciously, clutching the stem of the glass tightly.

He emerges over an hour later, looking like he was boiled alive. His normal pale, delicate (she will continue to hope) looks painfully red, as if he scoured it with a metal brush before trying to drown himself under boiling water. He's too thin, overwhelmed by clothing she assumes he must have stolen - they wouldn't have fit him when he was two stones heavier. He doesn't look at her, instead he flops inelegantly down on her sofa, his eyes closing before his body hits the cushions. Taken aback completely, she stares at him unblinkingly for almost a full minute, her wineglass almost spilling from her hand. He looks almost... _normal, _in his unabashed, emotional, weakness. How quaint.

"Are you... _sleeping?" _She finally asks, colouring her words with distaste. She is not the kind of woman people come to to shower and _sleep. _She is quite sure she'd be offended, if she could shake off her surprise.

"Just about. Your thinking is getting in the way." He sniffs pompously, but his words are blurred with fatigue, and vulnerability, and have nowhere near the same kind of weight that had once sent thrills through every single nerve in her body. She raises a single (perfectly sculpted) eyebrow at him.

"That is so dreadfully dull. I'm very surprised at you. I haven't seen you in _ages. _And all you want to do is sleep? I must be losing my touch." She pouts in a way that she had perfected in her teenaged years, after hours in a mirror discovering the perfect ways to bend men to her will.

"You do seem to have gathered a few more wrinkles since we last met. Old age is creeping up on you quite quickly." She frowns at him with genuine annoyance now. What is most irritating is how idly he said it - he isn't paying proper attention to her. That would never do. Where were the looks of wonder and surprise - the puzzlement and frustration, of battling his attraction to her, and desperately trying to save face in front of her to keep his pride? She didn't like these changes.

And then he starts snoring.

Affronted, she stands, flipping off the fire, hoping he freezes. At the last moment, she grabs the blanket he had curled up under, snatching it from his body, and storming off to her room. Angrily, she wipes off the makeup that she had had Zoë painstakingly and with the greatest care, decorate her with. She lets down her hair, and brushes her teeth, still fuming. Despite the fact that she knows it would do nothing, she locks her door, because, quite frankly, he had lost his chance for tonight. _Again. _

_Those Holmes boys, _she thinks crossly, _what on Earth am I supposed to do with them?_

* * *

She finds him the next morning, amid the war zone that was once her kitchen. The refrigerator and freezer door are swung wide open, half of its contents spilled across the (quite expensive) hardwood floors. The bread box has been ripped apart - crumbs and stray crusts littering the counter. The oven is on, and emitting quite toxic fumes, the stove is on fire, and standing in the middle, is a very frustrated, very hungry (though not quite the way she would prefer) Sherlock Holmes.

"What on _Earth _have you done?" She asks him over the sound of the smoke detector.

"I am _trying _to cook. It cannot be this difficult for heaven's sake - Mrs. Hudson is capable of doing for a living!" She finds herself yet again just staring at this bizarre man. She rolls her eyes, shut off the oven and stove, grabs a fire extinguisher, shoving it into his hands, and removing the blacked, charred remains that look like it might have once been... beans? She couldn't remember asking for _beans _of all things the last time she sent Zoë out. Where was she, speaking of which?

"Did it occur to you to perhaps sneaking out and _purchasing _food?" Irene snaps, switching the blaring box off. He merely sniffs again, still spraying the kitchen with white foam, looking more interest in the substance by the looks of it, considering how he was no longer focused on the fire. She redirected his hands with a sigh, until the fire had finally given up. Grimacing, she stepped around the crushed pulp that was once her food to the sink to wash her hands gingerly.

"I don't have any money." Irene glared at him.

"So you decide to set my kitchen on fire?" He doesn't answer, grabbing a plateful of toast, smothered in jam and cream cheese, and storms off towards the living room. She follows after a moment, because now she really needs some kind of explanation. He settles back on the couch and balances the plate on his knees, fitting almost an entire piece into his mouth, spraying her furniture with more crumbs. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. Really, for a man for such high birth. She would have thought that he would be able to manage eating.

She waits (not patiently, although she barely hides that) until he has consumed the entire plate of toast, feeling almost queasy at the amount he puts away. When he has finally swallowed the last of it, he looks up at her.

"Yes?" His genuine confusion is exasperating.

"Are you planning on telling me how you found me? Or for that matter, _why?" _

"I was in New York, and I needed a place to hide."

"While you attempted - _alone - _to undermine a criminal empire?" His eyes zero in on her, panic and suspicion lining every suddenly tense muscle. Although she does enjoy the way the vein in his neck pops out. She wonders if that would happen under a different kind of stress.

"Who have you been speaking to?"

"You are not a complicated man, Mr. Holmes. I never believed that you would actually kill yourself. Although your little vendetta, and the single-minded aggression you are attacking Jim's network with is baffling. What did you tell me about sentiment again? Ah, yes, a chemical defect. And yet here you sit, exiling yourself in order to save three people who are entirely replaceable. It is quite possible, I do assure you. I was fond of Kate, when I lived in London, and yet Zoë has made a wonderful replacement. Her skin is far more expressive too."

"I am not you, Ms. Adler." He says. "I have no use for sex servants."

"Hardly a servant. She enjoys everything I give her. Now do stop deflecting. It's unattractive." His brow furrows further, and she begins to understand his boyfriend's constant exasperation with the man. What was his name again?

"There is nothing to explain." He says, quite steadily, although the sorrow that flickers in his eyes is so overwhelmingly heartfelt and real. She is shocked for what feels like the umpteenth time in the last twelve hours. "Moriarty was clever - yes, oh, he was clever. He was ready to die for this game. But I was much cleverer - and much better prepared, in the end. He made a very big mistake - and I suppose I did too. But I corrected myself, which turned out to be the difference between living and dying."

"Yes, yes, yes, I quite understand, you're brilliant. What was the mistake?" He flashes her a smirk, as if her interest in somehow a misstep. But she hadn't been lying (for once out of the few times they were together) - brainy was the new sexy. And she _did_ like detective stories.

"He underestimated the strength of my pathologist." He smiles slightly, staring off into nothing. When he catches her eye, he shakes himself, the quirk of his lips melting away. _His pathologist? Was his boyfriend a pathologist? He was a doctor, wasn't he? _"Anyway. Moriarty left quite a substantial network, and I must destroy it before I can return to my life. It has not been a smooth journey, thus far, admittedly. But I am making notable headway." She lies back, considering him, holding that iron gaze for a few moments, before her lips slide into something more sultry. She rises, stretches, and leans over him, trapping his head between her arms. His jaw hardens and his eyes turn to steel (unfortunately not the place she would have preferred harden, but she has time), but he meets her gaze quite defiantly.

One day she will just have to break him of that insolence.

"Why return?" She asks lightly, tracing his neck with a sharp, blood red nail. "What did that life truly gift to you? You could always find work elsewhere. Caring is a not an advantage, I believe your brother likes to tell people. Besides," she purrs, crawling onto his lap, peeved at the stubborn softness between his thighs. "I am sure I could make you forget everything but my name. Have dinner with me, Mr. Holmes. Start a new life. I do assure you I have many things that would keep you entertained." She leans closer, hovering over his lips - she'll make him break. He will need to get used to that.

"I believe I have learned a lot, in the last year." He speaks into her mouth, breath warming her skin. "I was very lonely, for a very long time. I had no one, and I told myself defiantly that I didn't need them anyway. My work... I said I was _married _to my work. I sneered at anyone who had any considerations for anything unrelated to intellect. The idea of trust was laughable. Who needed it?" His hand cups her hip, and she presses herself into him, forcing his head back, so that he could know the feel of her molded to him.

"Good boy - let me teach you the wonder of... _'dinner.'" _She drags her teeth up his neck, delighting at the immediacy of the red that flushes his neck in its wake. Oh, how this was a long time coming.

"I have learned otherwise. In my newfound loneliness, I have a great distaste for my past behaviour. I have learned the value of being able to trust a person. To be able to depend that a person is who they say they are, and shares that with you without repent. It is quite a wonderful thing." She goes cold, and tries to pull back, but he holds her in place. "I, of course, do not _need _to destroy Moriarty's network. I am doing it, to protect the people I care about. And when I am finished, I will return to them. It is a small circle, admittedly, but there is a person waiting for me in London, and three others who don't know that they're waiting for me. I won't disappoint them." His thumb settles on her pulse point, which of course is elevated, curse him. "We have had our day in the sun, Ms. Adler. And while I am sure you will never cease to be intriguing to me, I have things to attend to, I'm afraid."

She almost throws herself off him, forgetting to be lithe and seductive. He only looks at her curiously, without anything meaningful in his eyes.

"Your loss, Mr. Holmes." She tells him lightly, "I do assure you that you have missed out on a scintillating and stimulating opportunity." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Perhaps. I will take that chance."

She walks away (stalks, really, but for appearance's sake she won't admit it), her heart hammering in her throat, damning his ability to somehow strip her bare, when no one else ever could. While she composes herself behind the safety of her locked bathroom door, she remembers the steady thrum of his pulse against her fingers - unruffled by her presence.

She chooses right then, to believe that he has finally decided that he learned to explore everything delightful that he could do with his little pet doctor.

When she leaves the bedroom an hour later, she is dressed and made up, refusing to look for him again to bid him good bye. She has her driver take her straight to the airport, and seeks shelter on the first flight to Paris, where a man called Guillaume, a woman named Marie, a wonderful little café, and her favourite art galley wait, who have never failed to distract her. She leaves Zoë a toneless voicemail, unwilling to soften her character to coddle the little slip of a thing, instructing her to clean her kitchen, and keep everything in order while she's away.

She doesn't say how long, because she is raw and smarting, _again, _and she hasn't decided.

* * *

She ties Marie up, talks her into frenzy after frenzy, and pushes her until she is _screaming _with want. She handcuffs Guillaume, whips him until his body is a canvas of mottled purple and red, and never gives him the relief he is silently begging her for with his expressive and eager brown eyes (too expressive, she covers them). She buys enough clothing to last her a year, and has them shipped. She wanders her favourite gallery, and arranges for several to be stolen. She idles in her favourite café, watching people float by her, making up stories for them; imagining what they would like. How she could _make _them like what she wanted them to like.

By the end of the second month, she has grown so terribly bored, her inbox bursting with begging subs to return to New York, with miffed business partners demanding for her intellect, and a tearful Zoë, apologising needlessly for offenses that she has imagined to explain Irene's absence. Irene comforts Zoë with careful, pointed statements, and leaves her with instructions to deal with her clients and partners, promising a swift return.

Sherlock (she realises she only calls him that in her head - it seems to intimate to let it leave her tongue.) isn't there when she arrives, not that she expects him to be. Her large flat has been obsessively cleaned, enough to make her consider letting Zoë go (because at a certain point, she despises such obvious, clichéd infatuations), but her bedroom has been carefully fooled with. Her favourite whip is missing, she is certain of it, in its place, a small toy plane. She curses him and smirks and places it carefully back, deciding that she may not be quite finished with that man.

Maybe when he returned to London, she could pay him a visit or two. _Really _make him sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**"REICHENBACH HERO RETURNS FROM DEAD VINDICATED!"**

**"RICHARD BROOK A FAKE!"**

**"GENIUS SLEUTH PROVEN INNOCENT!"**

**"HOLMES IS HOME!"**

She is idle as she peruses the appalling excuse for British media (not that the Americans are any better), detailing Kitty Riley's disgrace, Jim's true identity, and Sherlock's first case that brought him "roaring back to the rescue, just when Britain needed a hero." There are pictures of him in that ridiculous deerstalker again, although he holds himself straighter than he used to, with a small, satisfied smirk. Oh, how odious - male pride.

She decides a trip to London may soon be in order.

* * *

Irene Adler arrives as is appropriate - with a bang. She seduces another vulnerable, squeaky clean member of the royal family, keeps a video this time, and makes sure that the screams that the public sweetheart gives up are as damning as being tied up and whipped by a dominatrix. She emails a copy directly to Mycroft this time, and even though she is blonde now with green eyes, she doesn't bother giving him the alias he knew he by. She hopes he realises it in his own time. He can't be that old and bumbling, considering the continued state of the Middle East.

Sherlock and his little boyfriend (married now, although to another woman, according to his blog) are alerted at once, and in no time they are knocking on her door. Zoë is gone, but Elisha is just as wonderful, particularly the sweet little boyfriend that came with her. She adores both of them, really. They are both delicious.

Sherlock and his partner are led to her living room, where she waits for them as she did so long ago, this time, a leather corset and black stocking lining her skin as if she was made into them. She fingers her whip as Sherlock glares down at her, while little John's jaw drops, and starts yelling.

"That's - is that?! Sherlock! _Does no one bloody stay dead anymore?" _

"Oh do take a seat, Dr. Watson. Or is it Morstan now?"

"It's still Watson." He growls through gritted teeth and clenched hands.

"Oh silly me." She waves it away with her hand, "Of course. Do take a seat, it has been _so _long." The good doctor scowls at Sherlock fiercely, muttering rebelliously at his other half as he begrudgingly takes a seat. Patrick enters to offer tea, but she waves him away with a salacious, promising wink that sends him flushed and bothered from the room.

"I do have better things to do that reclaim incriminating evidence of you beating members of the royal family into submission." He says in an incredibly bored, unaffected tone. "I was gone for over two years - there are endless cold cases that I need to go back and solve, never mind the ones that occur daily." His eyes narrow down at her, "Are you going to be reasonable about this, or will I need to send another CIA operative to the hospital? I do hope you've learned your lesson about working with criminal masterminds, at the very least."

"Just bloody well hold on, Sherlock." John snaps, "Could I at least receive an explanation as to why this woman is _alive? _Bloody _Mycroft _thought she was dead."

"Oh, good doctor, you should have been there. Your Consulting Detective rose admirably to my defense, snatching me from the precipice of death, at the very last second." She settles her eyes on Sherlock's defensive stance, "It was quite thrilling."

"_You saved her life?!" _John hisses, "You let Mycroft and me think that she was dead! And that you were bloody heartbroken over it!" Sherlock's closes his eyes briefly, before shooting John a warning look, but Irene has heard enough that the damage is done. She smirks triumphantly at Sherlock's strangled embarrassment.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes. _Sentiment. _You really are susceptible to it, aren't you?"

"I assure you it was an appearance in order to trick Mycroft into thinking that your death was very real." He says through gritted teeth. He doesn't even look _"intrigued," _she thinks suddenly, examining his face and body language closely. He does in fact look genuinely irritated with her. He turns his nose up at her, his eyes cold. "If you would please stop wasting my time, and hand over the video evidence, I would be much obliged." He looks braced for a fight, but Irene was ready to surprise him again.

"Very well." John gapes at her, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I am in no need of shaming the royal family - I simply required your attention. I have a real case for you, you will be pleased to hear."

"First the video." Sherlock warns. She sighs and does as she is told, surprised at the frisson of excitement that ripples through her - maybe someday she would even let him have the upper hand. She hands him the memory pen, stroking his hand once, smirking up at his impassive face. "Now - what case could you have?"

She settles back down on the divan. "A close client of mine has gone missing - he lives in Hyde Park, and he hasn't been heard from or seen for the last two weeks. The situation is a little too... delicate for Scotland Yard, if you catch my meaning." John pales, but Sherlock's face doesn't move.

"Send me the details. If it is interesting enough, I will take a look. John, come along." He nods once to her, "Ms. Adler."

"Mr. Holmes." She breathes, licking her lips slowly. He grimaces and swiftly exits, John hot on his heels.

* * *

She decides that his two day silence is unacceptable.

221B Baker Street has not changed at all, since she was last here. She settles herself in his chair (he is turning out to be more of a creature of habit than she anticipated), and waits.

Forty-five minutes later, the door opens, but Sherlock Holmes is not the one who enters.

A plain, almost mousy woman enters, her dull brown hair tied back in a strict pony tail parted at the side. She takes her coat off to reveal a brightly coloured jump, and loose black trousers. Irene wrinkles her nose at the distinct ignorance of style or fashion, and waits for the woman (housekeeper maybe?) to notice. The young woman starts when she finally catches sight of Irene, with hazel eyes as plain as the rest of her, lounging nude except for one of Sherlock's dressing gowns. The girl flushes furiously.

"Who are you?" She asks, a rush of emotions colouring her voice. Irene looks her up and down.

"Yvette Williams. I am an old acquaintance of Mr. Holmes. I offered him a case a couple of days ago... he has yet to respond. I decided to come myself." The woman, if anything, looks unhappier with the answer. "Are you Mr. Holmes' new housekeeper? Did the other one die?"

"What? No, Mrs. Hudson is fine. Wh-why are you wearing nothing but Sherlock's dressing gown?" She stammers, her hands shaking rather noticeably. _Oh dear, _Irene thinks piteously, _someone has a little crush. _"I work at Bart's - did _you _call me here? I thought it was Sherlock who texted me - you didn't hack into his email did you? He's not..." She gulps, "he's not here, is he?"

"No, little one. I'm waiting for him as much as you are. Are you the little morgue girl? The pathologist?" The girl nods her head jerkily. "Ah, I believe John once mentioned you. You showed Mr. Holmes my body to identify, I believe!" At her noticeable confusion, Irene chuckles, "I was an Irene Adler back then, my dear. Perhaps not as dead as I claimed." The impressive colour drains from the girl's face in seconds. _Oh, poor thing, _Irene thinks, almost giddily. Then the door bangs open, and Sherlock comes roaring in, looking furious.

"Woman. What are you doing here? Put your own clothes back on." He snaps, with an anger she is unfamiliar with from him. He turns away to the mousy little doctor. "Molly, please go see to Mrs. Hudson. I will be down in a moment. I need to deal with this." The girl nods without question and leaves quite quickly. He wheels back around and glares down at her. Irene doesn't buckle; doesn't move.

"This material is absolutely _gorgeous. _You must tell me where you get them."

"Keep it." He huffs.

"Oh, darling, I would love to. How thoughtful. Now - you have yet to get back to me on my little... _problem." _His eyes flash, and he almost winces at her choice of words, much to her delight.

"I have been busy."

"You don't seem to be now." She observes.

He pauses. "I will look at the file you sent me. I will take the case. I very much doubt it will present much of a challenge. Now leave. I need to get to work." Irene laughs and stretches, rising slowly.

"Oh, you are no fun." She pouts, but acquiesces. She puts her jacket on, covering the dressing gown entirely. "Do keep in touch, Mr. Holmes."

"Ms. Adler."

* * *

_St. Bart's morgue. I have found your client. - SH_

She frowns at the news - it was always an option, she knows, but his death is incredibly inconvenient for her. She texts back explicit instructions to _not _contact the family quite yet, and sends off several emails to various business partners who will need to be kept informed about this. Flinty eyed and severely irritated, she has Elisha dress her up, and Patrick drive her to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She leaves him waiting in the parking lot, and glides down to the morgue, finding an escort at the reception, a portly man who is very happy to take her.

They find Sherlock behind a microscope in the laboratory, far more interested in whatever he is intently staring at rather than her arrival. He dismisses the doctor quickly and harshly, sending him bumbling out the door, without looking up. And then he ignores her.

"Well?" She finally asks. His eyes snap to her.

"Oh, yes. _Molly!" _He shouts, turning back to his sample. The girl from the other day appears within a few moments, looking harried.

"There's no need to yell, Sherlock, I said I'd be right back - oh. Ms. Williams, I don't think we were properly introduced yesterday."

"I did try," Irene says mildly. The woman blushes again.

"Right, of course. Er, sorry. I'm Molly Hooper." She holds out a hand to shake, but Irene has no wish to catch the smell of death, so she smiles and looks her up and down before turning back to Sherlock.

"Charmed - Mr. Holmes, you said you had my client?"

"Yes, Mr. Koffman?" Irene looks down at the little doctor, getting annoyed.

"I did hire Mr. Holmes, so I will thank you to leave it to him." Sherlock looks back up at the two of them at the growing tension. Molly Hooper reddens further.

"Well, Sherlock doesn't actually work here. I'm the one who will show you the body. He has no access to anything in the morgue without my permission." The girl's voice sharpens, and Sherlock almost pouts resentfully at her. Irene looks between the two of them, bewildered, because what her instincts are telling her cannot possibly be even _fathomable. _

_"He underestimated the strength of my pathologist." _She recalls silently, eyes narrowing down at this plaintive thing.

"Well, then. Ms. Hooper -"

"Dr. Hooper." Sherlock corrects sharply. Irene glances at him incredulously.

"Yes, Dr. Hooper, please, _do _grace me with your expertise." Despite her sudden show of backbone, the comment shows its effect in her skin. Nonetheless, she takes Irene to the morgue, pulling out the body. Irene glances over him quickly - and yes, sadly, it was the man she was looking for. She clenches her jaw and refers back to her phone at the insistent chimes. This was not how she intended for this to go. She was sure the man had just fled to the Caribbean with one of his nannies again.

"He was found in the Thames this morning. Cause of death has been ruled as asphyxiation. He was dead before he was dumped into the river." Dr. Hooper says quietly. Irene glances at her.

"I don't suppose there are any leads into who killed him? Never you mind." Irene cuts the doctor off, who had just opened her mouth. "I was thinking out loud. Mr. Holmes is the one I need to talk to about this." She eyes the girl (younger than her, fine, but hardly as interesting as she is), and stalks back to the laboratory. Sherlock looks at her primly.

"His wife murdered him. Lestrade is going to fetch her at the moment." He smiles thinly at her, "I suppose not everyone is as entranced with your affairs."

"I was not the one to cause such vengeance, Mr. Holmes." Irene tells him drily, "But I do thank you for your assistance in this case. It is not ideal, but at least I know." He nods. "I will be in London another week, should you have any inclination for dinner." She smirks, "Mere snacking won't sustain a man forever, you understand." Dr. Hooper enters at her words, and despite the fact that it is an inside joke, she sidles up to Sherlock - almost _defiantly - _anyway. Irene turns with a simper plastered across her lips, and when she chances a look back at the two of them, just a peek, Sherlock briefly runs his fingers down the woman's spine with warmth in his eyes and a genuine smile, albeit small. Dr. Hooper shivers with a smile of her own and moves away, taking a file from him.

_Impossible. _She thinks, wheels turning viciously in her head.


	5. Chapter 5

In her defense, little Molly Hooper did give her the idea. After three days, when her contacts have scrounged up all they could find on the frankly boring Dr. Hooper, Irene lies in wait in her small flat. It was perhaps more depressing than the cell the Pakistanis kept her in before the attempted execution. At least that death would have been quick - this, a sanctuary for a spinsters, is leeching her youth by sitting here. Shelves overflowing with books, a fully equipped television and movie collection, and even a cat. The girl seemed possibly to be even more of a virgin than Sherlock Holmes (although her bedside table drawers contains much more interesting toys than Sherlock's). She couldn't imagine this flat as a suitable place for anything amorous - it was far too dreary.

Molly is late getting home from her shift. It is hardly shocking, considering the lack of hobbies or social life, but Irene's skin is crawling, every nerve ending begging her to leave this place far behind her. It reminds her of her grandmother's house - a sad and lonely woman who had died sick and alone. She doesn't like the reminder.

The door finally cracks open, and Molly Hooper enters, making kissing noises to her eager, affectionate cat. Irene grimaces as Molly makes her way through the flat, before turning the light on. The girl shrieks and nearly falls over her feet and her cat. She catches herself at the last moment, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment, and perhaps even anger, as her cat yowls indignantly and flees from the room.

"Irene Adler. Or Yvette Williams. _What are you doing in my flat?" _Dr. Hooper snaps at Irene, much to her surprise.

"Waiting for you." Irene replies calmly.

"I _guessed. _It seems to be a bit of a thing with you, then?" Irene smiles at the irate doctor. "What do you _want?"_

"I will admit, after several years acquainted with Sherlock Holmes, I am indeed curious about your... link, I suppose, to the man. I have never heard of you, surprisingly, and yet you are in his home, and you work with him. And those doe eyed looks you not-so-covertly shoot him don't seem to... _irritate _him." The girl blushes so easily, and so prettily. Were they in another life, Irene would have taken her on, to see whether or not the rest of her skin marked similarly.

"We're involved." Dr. Hooper says shortly, tentatively sitting down across from Irene on her own couch. "As in, _together." _She clarifies, rather unnecessarily. Irene takes a few moments, letting the silence stretch. It seems harder to breathe for some reason, harder to remain calm and flippant with this unremarkable little girl, who seems to have managed where she has failed, time and time again.

"Yes, I am capable of making that leap, thank you." She should leave now, Irene realises. No matter the history she has with the man, the long build up to something she was both assuming would happen, and that would be explosive, the balance has shifted completely, and her footing is very uncertain. But proving yet again that she has not learned a single thing from her brutal defeat, she grins at little Molly Hooper, whose heart is worn without much thought on her ugly jumper.

"I suppose I need to wait my turn again, such a shame." _Oh dear, _Irene thinks gleefully, _there goes that lovely colour. _"We have had so much fun together, and I'm not even in town for very long. You wouldn't be open to sharing him for a few nights, would you? I promise not to leave too many bruises."

"Yo-you - nothing happened with you two." Molly stammers, looking teary. Irene passes her a tissue with a faux sympathetic smile.

"Oh, darling, you poor thing. Is that what he told you? That man never _has _been very good with emotional confrontations. Or honesty. Do you know why he calls me 'Woman?'" Irene asks, to which Molly - trembling - shakes her head. "Because I am the first, and _only _woman who could ever fully catch his eye. How else do you explain his heartbreak at my trickery? And furthermore, his desperate rush to save my life. He was so heroic - snatching me away from those nasty men who wanted my head. He does love his dramatics." Molly is shaking now.

"You're-you aren't. You aren't - I matter, I _count - " _Irene cuts her off.

"Oh, I suppose he needs a play thing to distract him from John and his little marriage trick. It must have been so horrible, to come back and find that everyone had moved on from him; didn't _need _him anymore. He certainly kept me entertained while he was 'dead.'" Silently, Irene begins to count the tears that Molly swipes away angrily, desperately trying to hold on to some semblance of control. A pity she hadn't at least learned that much from Sherlock.

"I'm not - no, I am _not _a plaything."

"Of course you aren't, sweetie. Did he tell you you were his one and only? Silly thing - don't you know him, from your years of following him around, hanging onto his every word?" Irene leans across the coffee table, closing in on the fragile little doll breaking apart in her hands. "_Lying _is what Sherlock Holmes is best at." Molly jumps to her feet, nearly knocking Irene over.

"_Leave. _I want you to - just _go." _She takes off for her bedroom, slamming the door behind her, and ignoring her disgruntled cat scratching at the door.. Irene smirks.

"Do let me know when he grows bored with you? He will need something more satisfying after his time with you dwindles." And confidently, elegantly, in ways this girl could never hope to compete, Irene Adler struts out of Molly Hooper's flat, sliding into her car, and instructing Patrick to take her home.

* * *

Hours later, when Irene is basking in front of a warm fire, handling a few small matters from her phone, her door slams open. She raises her head, sliding a hand to the gun she always kept with her, but relaxing when only Sherlock comes storming into the room, standing furiously in front of her, his eyes blazing brighter than the fire. She smiles slowly, tilting her head and looking at him.

"My, my, Mr. Holmes, did you finally receive my text? And here I was beginning to think that you were too caught up in another case to bother with me." His jaw clenches.

"I did." He spits, ripping his phone from his pocket. "Continuing with your juvenile and pathetic metaphor - _'Let's have dinner. You must be starving.'" _

"You will be needing fewer items of clothing, if we are to do this properly." Irene advises. Sherlock's eyes actually bulge, the vein in his neck standing firmly out, and his fists clenched and trembling. _Oh dear, _she realises, rolling her eyes, _we will have to deal with the child's emotions._

"We will _not _be doing anything of the sort, _Woman." _Sherlock hisses, leaning down and trapping her between his arms. She tries to reach for him, to trail her hands down his chest into a more interesting place, wanting to feel him squirm as her nails brushes his skin through his clothing. But Sherlock traps both her hands in his, shoving them down beside her. His face is flushed, his teeth bared, glaring down at her.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sherlock." She exclaims, trying to push him off her. He resists, quite easily. "This cannot possibly be about that _girl." _

"It it _entirely _about _'that girl.'" _He growls at her. Irene falls back against the chair with a despairing, pitying look.

"You poor fool. Has Dr. Watson tricked you into this? Has he decided you need to be tamed and domesticated?" She leans forward, trying to nuzzle at him, but he avoids her completely. "Darling, you don't need her. What could she possible offer you?"

"_Everything." _Sherlock barks, his voice actually _breaking_. "Everything. Her mind, her heart, her soul, her body."

"Good Lord, you actually have feelings for that little mouse." Irene nearly laughs, consumed with how ridiculous the notion truly was. "Sherlock Holmes, actually falling _prey, _to romance, of all things."

"I am in love with her." Sherlock says quietly, suddenly deflating from his previous fury. His eyes are earnest and intent on her to understand. "I want to be with her. I nearly lost her to another man, because of my pride and my arrogance, and I don't intend to let the likes of you take her away with your lies and your tricks."

"Pot. Kettle." Irene manages to say drily, though her round eyes most likely give her away. Sherlock shakes away the accusation.

"It doesn't matter. I told you - we have had our day in the sun." He releases her and stands, imperiously, above her, radiating with a number of emotions. "I will warn you once. I don't ever want to see you again. I don't want you to ever step foot within two hundred metres of me, or my people. _If you do," _He enunciates, carefully and sharply. "I will dig up every single crime you have ever committed, and I will hand you over to Mycroft, and ensure that you are used as an example to every other woman or man who seems to think they can cross my brother or myself." His smile is wan, quick, and cruel. "Am I _understood?" _

"Very well, Mr. Holmes." She hisses. "Have a wonderful life with your dull little creatures."

"I will."

He sweeps out of the room without a look back, though this time she can't help but stare after him. She reaches for her phone, shaken and cold, and numbly changes the passcode, and erases his number.

* * *

She is only pretending to sleep - trying to force herself into not waiting too obviously for Sherlock. He had been gone over two hours - after she had exploded irrationally at him, her eyes still swollen with tears she had kept from spilling. He had stared at her as she yelled, throwing accusation after accusation at him, feeling foolish and used and temporary. Paling rapidly, Sherlock had walked swiftly to her, grabbing her and pulling her into a searing kiss that she had not even attempted to resist.

"The Woman is a liar." He had whispered against her lips, his hands brushing the wetness away from her eyes, trailing over her face and hair. "I will be back." He had then kissed her once, twice, before pulling himself away and leaving, not even stopping to close the door. She had shut it softly, scared and (only just) hopeful at the same time. Unable to stand staring at the clock in one place, she had a bath, put on her largest, comfiest pair of pajamas that Sherlock hated, and climbed into bed, staring out the window. Toby had tried to convince her to pet him, but she had pushed him away, to jumpy to even accept him into her arms.

Finally, she hears the door open quietly, and his quick steps into her bedroom. His weight settles on the bed, looming over her, and wordlessly he pulls her into his arms. Even if she's terrified about what he's about to say, she lets him wrap himself completely around her, tucking her into his Belstaff. She is even more vulnerable now, than when it was a stupid, unrequited crush. Now he holds her heart completely in his hands. She doesn't want it back.

"Since Irene Adler fled London..." Sherlock begins, his achingly familiar deep voice scratchy and trembling in her ear. "I have seen the woman three times, including the past week. I went to Pakistan to save her life - Moriarty left me a clue, leading me to Karachi. I went because she intrigued me, and because I didn't want to see her dead. I put her on a plane in Mumbai, and I didn't see her again until after my Fall." Molly traces a finger over his breastbone, trailing down to where his heart lies. "I was in New York, and I was in a bad fight. I was in danger, and I needed somewhere to hide. I spent three nights on her couch. She was there for the first night. She made her intentions known, and I rejected her." He gently rubs his nose against her cheek. "She left in anger. I haven't seen her until Mycroft contacted John and me a week ago."

Molly takes a deep breath. "I know we weren't together when you met her, and you had no obligations to me." She says in a small voice. "But - "

"I have never engaged in any sexual or romantic activities with her, nor do I have any inclination to do so. John and Mycroft greatly exaggerated my feelings towards her. Her mind and resourcefulness were impressive - the game she played was a good one. It was also a lesson for me in regards to my... _eagerness, _perhaps, to astound anyone I can with my intellect." Placing soft, gentle, hesitant kisses along her jaw, Sherlock shifts her even closer to his warm body and frantic pulse.

"You are a bit of a show-off." Molly mutters into his chest. Sherlock smiles.

"Perhaps. In some ways, my brain is all I have to offer the world." Molly pulls back suddenly, and the loss makes his chest ache. She takes his face into her hands (gently, so lovingly, that it _hurts) _and presses her forehead against his, staring at him.

"Be quiet. That is never, nor will it ever be true." She whispers. He nods without an argument - they both know of that particular insecurity, and Molly understands perfectly that she needs to show him his worth rather than tell him.

"Nevertheless. You are the only person I have ever loved in this manner." He sees her surprise, and cups her face in his large hands, pressing sweet, genuine kisses to her lips. "I am not comfortable with my emotions - I suspect I will never be as comfortable as a normal man. But that does not mean they aren't there, Molly Hooper." Molly gives a watery chuckle.

"I have always known that, Sherlock Holmes." She hugs him, wrapping her legs around him, and pulling him back down to the bed. Before he gets lost in her, he pulls his face above the surface, feeling it important to get the last words out.

"I told her to stay away from London." He says insistently, "I told her I have no interest in her presence in my life ever again. I don't need or want her." Molly smiles in understanding, nodding in response. He sees the stress and worry that Irene put into her head melt from her face and muscles, and he relaxes, lowering himself to kiss her into oblivion, muttering his distaste for her choice in clothing as he tries vainly to take them off.

* * *

_**A/N: And this (I think) is the end to this story. Thank you to everyone to read, enjoyed, and reviewed. I would like to say one thing. I was not going to post this until tomorrow, but I was receiving several messages criticising me for the lack of clarity of the end pairing. I understand it was unclear - it was purposefully so. If you wish to create a story that is clearer, I encourage you to post your own. As this is my story, all creative decisions, are in fact, my own. As for the technical aspects, this is the first story I have posted on this website since the updates. I am still trying to figure how to work it properly. I did not mean to cause any inconveniences. Thank you.**_


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